


It's Weird Here, Right?

by pollutedstar



Series: Adjusting [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Carlos is trying his best to adjust, Carlos trying to understand this sudden complete lack of homophobia in Night Vale, Carlos' Hair (Welcome to Night Vale), Cecil Palmer's Fashion Sense, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, The Voice of Night Vale, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, gender non-conforming Cecil Palmer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:14:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23640643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollutedstar/pseuds/pollutedstar
Summary: “I’ve been in town about two weeks now,” he starts. Cecil nods enthusiastically. “And I keep hearing… okay, it’s just. Whatever, I just keep hearing people call each other their husbands and wives?”Cecil takes a sip, waiting for more, and then tugs his straw out of his mouth when he realizes that’s all he’ll get without prompting. “Yep,” he agrees, popping the last letter. “That’s what people call each other when they’re married in Night Vale. Is it the marriage thing that’s confusing? I know it’s kind of an outdated concept, it started back when families would exchange blood to merge—”“No, I understand what marriage is. That exists outside of this town,” Carlos interrupts. “I mean that I keep hearing two woman call each other their wives. Or two men call each other their husbands.”“Mhm,” Cecil murmurs, folding his hands under his chin as he nods. “They’re married, then.”“Cecil,” Carlos finally snaps, frustrated that he’s not being understood. Cecil furrows his brow, and somehow his third eye even looks concerned. “That’s not legal here.”
Relationships: Carlos/Cecil Palmer
Series: Adjusting [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701907
Comments: 30
Kudos: 230





	It's Weird Here, Right?

There’s a lot to get used to in Night Vale. Invisible food; “secret” police, whatever that means; vibrating trees; required radio stations; literal angels; the prohibition of acknowledging said literal angels; widespread disbelief in mountains; community nightmares; not to mention the way everyone watched him with cautious, weary eyes, although that wasn’t much different than the outside world. What made it different, though, was _why_ they stared at him.

Carlos thinks he’s been adjusting well given the circumstances of his research, but there’s something off with the whole town that feels suspiciously gentle. He’s scared it will lull him into a false sense of security he hasn’t felt since he was a child.

The first day him and his team came into town, the apartment that he was renting fell through, a delay that had something to do with the cancelation of his floor—a phrase he was sure he misheard over the phone—leaving him stuck at the lab for the night. A few of his scientists offered their couches, but he insisted they settle in and that he was happy pulling an all-nighter studying the town. It was peaceful once everyone left, and Carlos even started to believe his own lie as he wrote equations and carefully poured liquids in other liquids. The quiet of the lab let his mind quiet too, thinking back about the town meeting he had called earlier that day. He had wanted to push the news to a local media outlet to see if anyone in the community had more information on the housing development, but when he asked a tough but kind looking old woman how to contact a local journalist, she’d just chuckled before walking away.

As he was reviewing his current available data, as scientists sometimes do, the radio that had come preinstalled and was not allowed to be moved according to the rent agreement crackled to life, startling him enough that his pen slipped, leaving a dark blue line across his notes. He hadn’t left it on, and none of his colleagues could figure out the dials, which were written in some combination of what looked like Latin and unmodified nonsense. Walking over to inspect it, he heard a sombre voice spill from the speakers, making him pause his own actions.

“A friendly desert community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep. Welcome to Night Vale.”

As piano music filled the room, Carlos couldn’t help but feel the welcome was personally extended to him, even if he rationally knew it wasn’t. Scientists couldn’t be all rationale and logic, though, or else no real science would ever get done.

“Well,” Carlos had muttered to himself, “I’ve already seen a house that doesn’t exist. Radios that play themselves are probably normal here.”

The explanation had been enough to make himself content, and he would have simply gone on with his work for the rest of the night, this man’s voice soaking the room in something a little better than quiet. He didn’t want to admit to himself that there was something drawing him in about the voice, something in his lower gut that made him want to listen, but he planned to ignore that feeling and scientist on. And he succeeded for the first few minutes, until suddenly the man’s words caught his attention.

“—why his perfect and beautiful haircut? Why his perfect and beautiful coat?”

Perfect? Beautiful? Was this reporter really making fun of him on community radio? His tone seemed serious enough, but Carlos knew better than to fall for something like that. Were rumors already starting about him in town? He wasn’t sure any of his scientists even knew. It’s not that he was keeping it a secret, exactly, but he also wasn’t not keeping it a secret. It’s complicated. He’s got a sway to his hips that got him bullied in grade school, and he’s dark enough that most people are uncomfortable seeing him in a lab coat, so he’s never felt the need to make things harder for himself by opening up about his personal life. Now some random stranger who didn’t even have the guts to talk to him in person—which Carlos knew because he’d remember a voice like that—was mocking him on air?

He’d felt a tight twinge in his chest, the kind that happened whenever his classmates had muttered under the breaths about him, and he resigned himself to knowing that this town was just like every other town in America. He didn’t know why he had expected any different.

He sighed, hoping now that he’d had his fun the man wouldn’t bring him up again. That hope was crushed within ten minutes as he started talking about the town meeting.

“He has a square jaw, and teeth like a military cemetery.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. He wanted to turn down the volume, but he didn’t know how. Fiddling with the buttons only made a little red light on the side of the speakers flicker on.

“His hair is perfect—”

Frustrated, he returned to his work, his hands shaking slightly and his throat feeling tighter than he wanted. 

“He grinned, and everything about him was perfect—”

Maybe he should have gone home with someone for the night. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not they were listening to this station.

“—and I fell in love instantly.”

The clipboard in his hands dropped, but he didn’t even bother to pick it up before storming out the door. He didn’t know where he was going, just knew he couldn’t listen to that infuriating bastard keep making fun of him. He pulled his car door open, and not until he slammed it behind him did he realize the man’s voice was playing from his radio. His radio in his unstarted car. What the hell was going on? He frantically tried to change the station, but nothing worked, even after he turned on his car and tried to play a CD. A little red light that had not been on his dash the day before was glowing angrily, and Carlos slammed his hand onto his steering wheel, angry that his outside problems had followed him into this eldritch town.

He had thrown his hands over his eyes, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep, and when he pulled his head back he found himself in a completely new parking lot. His body physically lurched backwards, trying to scramble away from what his eyes were seeing. A large concrete building painted entirely purple sat in front of him with a tower above it. It was obviously a radio station, and Carlos found himself suddenly compelled to go inside. Maybe he wanted to physically distance himself from his traitorous car. Maybe he wanted to confront the man inside, knowing in the way that scientists know things that the broadcaster still in his ears was in there. Maybe he wanted to do anything that would distract him from the sinking feeling in his gut. Either way, he did what all scientists must do eventually: he got out of his car with nothing but a satchel and a lab coat and walked blindly into a dimly-lit radio station that held his entire future.

He pushed open the doors, expecting to be stopped or questioned, but an annoyed looking intern with a stained nametag just looked at him and smirked.

“Cecil’s the first door to the left. Make sure to say your mother’s maiden name before touching the handle, or else it’ll burn you up and my boss will lose it,” he said, jutting his finger towards a hallway. Carlos nodded politely, adjusting the bag on his shoulder and pretending not to be terrified by the idea of this boss “losing it.”

When he had pushed open the door, saying his mother’s maiden name just in case, he found himself in a control room completely empty of people. Lots of lights were flickering and machines were humming, but with no one controlling them. Maybe the station didn’t have management that stayed this late? He snorted, thinking that it was probably why this host could get away with saying what he’d said. His cursory glance led to no new information, so he looked up at the glass separating him from the man the intern had called Cecil.

Carlos took several seconds to process the sight in front of him. As a scientist, he can often take in rapid amounts of information very quickly. As a gay Latino, he usually knows how to hide most of his feelings, lest he be labeled dangerous or flamboyant, which meant the same thing to most people. But he felt his jaw fall ajar, unable to stop his shock. There was no doubt this was the man on the radio. Carlos could hear his voice. But Cecil wasn’t anything like Carlos had pictured him.

He was covered in tattoos, firstly. Purple tendrils that literally moved across his skin from what Carlos could see. And under his completely white hair, curly and floppy, seemed to be a third eye, unblinking. It was somehow watching Carlos and everything else in the room as well.

And that didn’t even touch on his _outfit._ Cecil was wearing a denim overall dress over a puffy pink shirt and a neon green bow on the right side of his hair. His nails were manicured to perfection, and if Carlos was seeing properly, he was wearing shiny pink lipstick. And fur on his platform boots. Fur. Platform. Boots. This couldn’t possibly be the person who had been mocking him all night.

He stood up suddenly, removing his headphones and waving Carlos in. Hesitantly, Carlos entered the recording room.

“Carlos!” he cried excitedly, leaning forward across his desk. “Hi! This is so great, we just went to the weather, so we have a couple minutes to chat. What brings you down here? Oh, is that your science equipment? I _love_ science, you know. It’s so interesting! Are you here to do an _experiment?_ Oh I would just be so flattered if you wanted to do science right here at Night Vale Community Radio. You could stay for an interview!”

Carlos nervously interrupted Cecil’s babbling, latching onto the perfect excuse he’d been given and claiming to be at the station for some tests. The eccentric man had pouted—literally pouted—when Carlos declined to do an interview, and after Carlos actually did a few readings he warned Cecil that he wasn’t sure the radio station should be used without furthering testing. The host had brushed him off in a falsely casual way, and Carlos had scrambled out of the studio when Cecil said the weather was about to end. He found himself back outside his lab, the calming voice still playing in his car, shaken and confused about very unscientific things.

Now Carlos finds himself laying on his bed, staring at his constantly moving ceiling. His apartment had suddenly been uncancelled, a voice on the phone apologizing much more than necessary for any inconvenience “our local scientist” might have suffered because of the mistake. People insist on calling him things like that, the “town’s most interesting resident,” “the handsome scientist,” and even more commonly, “Cecil’s scientist.” (He doesn’t blame the people who call him the latter—the man makes a point to mention Carlos almost any time he can on his show. Not that Carlos has been listening daily, or anything. Even if he has been, it’s just so he knows what’s going on around town. And because it’s mandated—the red lights on the radios were installed to light up and alert the Secret Police if anyone tried to change the station.) These nicknames and titles should make him uncomfortable, but what’s really upsetting him is that he’s been called names in the street before, and none of them have ever been kind. He doesn’t know how to handle this sudden onslaught of positive attention.

A man had professed his love for him on the only radio show in town. A man who seems to be a local celebrity, despite the fact that he’s flamboyant and, no offense, obviously gay. Openly gay, in fact. Carlos knows that some towns are more accepting than the one he grew up in, but this is beyond acceptance. This is normalcy. There’s no gossip outside of “I wonder if that scientist will ever pull the perfect hair from over his eyes and ask Cecil out.” Carlos is waiting for the second shoe to drop, but it doesn’t seem to be coming.

He turns over in his bed, staring at the radio that will turn on any minute for Cecil’s show. He’s contacted him minimally since his first night in town, which everyone with ears knows by now. Cecil frequently complains on air about Carlos not calling him, despite the fact that he’d left his number with one of the local scientists. Nilanjana had cackled when handing Carlos the slip of paper, telling him his “very public admirer” had left it for him. Nilanjana, and all of the scientists, in fact, have no problem at all with Carlos’s sexuality, but he has a problem with them knowing. And really, he knows, he has a problem with his sexuality. But that’s not anyone’s business but his.

“The idea of breaking a heart is archaic. No one can break your heart unless you give them permission. Really. If you haven’t marked it on your driver’s license, no one can take your organs but you. And City Council. Welcome to Night Vale.”

Carlos lets the soothing voice drown out his thoughts for the night. The oppressive sense of something feeling so right it has to be wrong is far from gone, however.

He’s out shopping his second week in town when he first hears it. A woman at the end of the isle is asking an employee what kind of bloodstone makes the best DIY circle, and the employee asks what decor she has at home that might interfere with rituals she shakes her head and mutters, “I don’t know, my wife’s the one who’s good with this kind of thing. Lemme call her.”

With his hand halfway towards a box of pasta that, unlike the other boxes, is not squirming, he freezes and stares at the pair. Her wife? He’s misheard, surely. He doesn’t remember what state he’s in, having lost that knowledge the moment he crossed Night Vale’s town line, but he knows in his bones that same-sex marriage is not legal here. It’s a knowledge that can’t be wiped from his memory.

He thinks to himself that maybe they’re just one of those couples who don’t need a certificate to feel that kind of devotion. He’s always wanted a relationship like that, although what he’s always wanted more is to not need a relationship like that, to have the option to fall in love the same way his parents did and sign the piece of paper that he’d probably hang on the wall out of joy. He doesn’t have that option, though. He shakes his head, averting his eyes before the woman realizes he’s staring, and returns to his shopping. He comforts himself knowing that there are people like him, which is always something he likes to be reminded of, and moves on with his day.

And then it keeps happening.

“Hi! You’re Carlos the Scientist, right?” a man coming out of Big Rico’s asks him, practically bouncing from excitement. Carlos has started hearing the capitalization of “Scientist” in people’s voices recently, although he’s not sure how.

“Uh, yeah, that’s me,” he mutters awkwardly, one hand on the door to his lab.

“I’m sure you get asked questions like this all the time, but would you mind helping me with a science thing? My husband and I have been struggling all week trying to figure out what to do about this black hole that’s been sitting in our living room.”

Carlos, while always excited to help people, feels his pulse jump a little at the word “husband.” He hesitates in his answer, nervous for no reason. He hopes his advice is understandable, because he doesn’t remember anything he says, but the man walks away looking happy, so Carlos thinks he’s probably done his job right.

After the third time, though, he feels like he’s going to burst with the need to talk about it with someone. He doesn’t want his team knowing anymore about his personal life than they already do, and he knows of only one other person who would be willing to listen to his rambling and answer his questions about Night Vale. Watching the two women with matching rings walk away from him, he pulls the number he’s kept in his lab coat pocket. It’s written in cursive somehow, despite only being numbers, and at the end of the writing is a little purple heart with tentacles bursting from it. Carlos smiles despite himself and dials the number before he can think about it too hard.

The phone doesn’t even get through the first ring.

“Carlos! I’m so happy you called. What’re you up to?”

Carlos knows it’s probably the man’s cell, but he can’t erase the image of Cecil twirling a phone cord around his finger from his head. Carlos feels a twinge of guilt for avoiding the man just because he enjoys Carlos’s company so much.

“Uh, nothing. Well, as nothing as anyone is ever up to. Science. Experiments. Looking at charts. Writing numbers. You know.” Carlos runs a hand through his hair nervously, conscious of it even if Cecil can’t see it. “I actually have a couple of questions about uh… well, history. Night Vale’s history. If you wouldn’t mind? You seem to know a lot about the town.”

“I know everything about the town,” Cecil assures him, but then hesitates. “I can… well I can try to help. Anything for a local scientist. It’s just that… I don’t know as much about the town’s history as you might think. And a lot of things we’re not allowed to talk about. But anything that won’t get me sent away to reeducation I’d be happy to help you with!”

Carlos finds his contradictory statements about knowing everything, yet also very little, off putting, but Carlos understands that the threat of a totalitarian government is nipping on Cecil’s heels as much as the rest of the town. He keeps his sigh to himself, not wanting Cecil to think it’s caused by him.

“Alright,” Carlos starts, but Cecil excitedly talks over him.

“Where should we meet? I know all sorts of places in town where we could grab a bite. Or food!”

“Oh, well—” Carlos doesn’t know how to explain that he just meant talking on the phone. And besides, he isn’t exactly opposed to seeing Cecil. He’s just nervous, and he doesn’t know why. “Sure. Yeah. Let’s meet up. Anywhere you think’s best. You’re the local after all.”

“I know this perfect little coffee place, super cute and artsy, I bet you’ll love it. They have these adorable little tentacle shaped mugs, and the blood shakes are to die for. Sometimes literally!”

“Great. Okay.” He kicks the gravel at his feet, pretending his cheeks aren’t heating up. He’s just excited about the scientific discoveries Cecil could help him with. This is a professional meeting only. Maybe he should make that clear (both for his sake and Cecil’s). “This isn’t for personal reasons, you know,” he attempts to clarify.

Cecil quiets for a moment, and Carlos regrets how bluntly he said it before Cecil replies with just as much cheer as ever, “Of course not, p- Carlos! It’s for the town’s history. I’ll send you the address and we can meet in about an hour?”

Carlos mumbles a vague noise of agreement and the line goes dead.

An hour later Carlos shuffles into a coffee shop that looks more like a nightclub from the outside, lit with neon lights over tinted windows. He pushes the door open, hoping he won’t have to wait for Cecil long, and then stops short when he sees the inside.

It looks like every other coffee house he’s ever been in. When horror becomes background noise, normalcy sometimes takes a person by complete surprise.

He realizes he won’t have to wait because Cecil is already sitting down, waving happily at him. Carlos walks over to him, trying to avoid staring at the man’s outfit: a sequined pink wrap skirt, a chainmail crop top, and hair teased so high it put the entire decade of the 80s to shame. Carlos feels overly normal, a feeling he’s never experienced before, in his denim jacket and flannel.

“I love the new lab coat,” Cecil purrs, leaning forward. Carlos doesn’t bother to correct him as he wiggles a little uncomfortably in his seat. He’s never been good with eye contact, and he’s relieved when Cecil doesn’t comment on it, just sips from his red milkshake. “Do you want anything? Ella’s coming back any moment with my croissant, I’d be happy to share. I like mine well-done, though, if that’s not a problem?”

“No, no,” Carlos murmurs, his hands playing on the table. “I’m not too hungry. I think I’ll be alright.”

As he says this, a young woman comes to their table with a blackened croissant with green ooze drizzled over it. Cecil thanks her and politely lets her know that his “companion” doesn’t want any. Carlos smiles a little at the word choice, but wipes the grin off his face before Cecil looks back at him.

“Soooo,” Cecil begins, long and drawn out. “How’s the science?”

“Sciency. Experimental. Temperamental too, actually, but that’s…”

“Not what you came here to talk about.”

Carlos takes a deep breath. He doesn’t understand why he feels so anxious about the question. If anyone was going to understand, it would be the man sitting in front of him.

“I’ve been in town about two weeks now,” he starts. Cecil nods enthusiastically. “And I keep hearing… okay, it’s just. Whatever, I just keep hearing people call each other their husbands and wives?”

Cecil takes a sip, waiting for more, and then tugs his straw out of his mouth when he realizes that’s all he’ll get without prompting. “Yep,” he agrees, popping the last letter. “That’s what people call each other when they’re married in Night Vale. Is it the marriage thing that’s confusing? I know it’s kind of an outdated concept, it started back when families would exchange blood to merge—”

“No, I understand what marriage is. That exists outside of this town,” Carlos interrupts. “I mean that I keep hearing two woman call each other their wives. Or two men call each other their husbands.”

“Mhm,” Cecil murmurs, folding his hands under his chin as he nods. “They’re married, then.”

“Cecil,” Carlos finally snaps, frustrated that he’s not being understood. Cecil furrows his brow, and somehow his third eye even looks concerned. “That’s not _legal_ here.”

A slow realization seems to cross Cecil’s face, and Carlos sighs, a bit of the tension in his shoulders disappearing. Hopefully he can get a real explanation from Cecil.

He doesn’t.

“Ohh, I understand. I know city law must be hard to keep up with as an outsider, what with it being written in the clouds only once a decade and changed randomly at the whim of the City Council, but I promise you marriage has never been illegal in Night Vale!”

Carlos can’t stop himself from putting his head in his hands and then running his fingers through his hair. He hopes Cecil understands that he means no ill with this gesture, he’s just more tired than he’s ever been in his life and Cecil is here to sigh at. Carlos looks up and is reassured that Cecil hasn’t taken offense because he’s been too busy watching his hair. Carlos blushes despite himself.

“Okay, no marriage has ever been illegal in Night Vale? Ever?”

“No? Why would the government get involved in that? I mean sure, there’s the dating paperwork, and the sex request forms, and the mandatory annual lie detector tests for spouses, but other than that the government doesn’t like to get involved in the romantic affairs of citizens. Gets too messy. I remember back when two of my interns started to date each other, which was frustrating enough having to deal with those two, and then they forgot to fill out the proper forms, and when they were arrested I was out both interns! Ugh, that was a frustrating week. But that’s not what you came here to talk about, sorry I tend to ramble. What else do you want to know about the town?”

Carlos mumbles, “Oh, it’s okay,” in a daze, thrown off of his rhythm by the entire conversation. Quickly pulling himself together, he asks, “Does homophobia not exist in Night Vale, Cecil?”

Cecil’s third eye squints as he shakes his head. “Well, considering I’ve never heard the word, I doubt it. Why?”

“You’ve never heard the word?” he demands, incredulous.

Cecil ducks his head in embarrassment. “Uh, no, sorry, is that a common thing where you come from? Maybe I have heard of it, let me—”

“No,” Carlos interrupts him, realizing abruptly how rude he’s been. “No, I’m sorry I got so worked up. It’s a really good thing you’ve never heard of it. I’ve just never… I don’t know. It’s a long story, I guess.”

Cecil reaches his hand across the counter, halfway, allowing Carlos to make the decision to meet it or not. Carlos puts his hand out halfway, too, but doesn’t touch Cecil. Neither acknowledges the movements.

“I’ve got all day,” Cecil tells him, genuine and heartfelt.

Carlos snorts. “All day isn’t enough for this kind of thing.”

“Then I’ve got approximately forever.”

Carlos smiles, knowing Cecil has just bared a part of himself. Carlos wants to be able to do the same. But old habits take years of therapy and self-acceptance to overcome. “I’d rather not talk about it right now.”

As Carlos gets up to leave, he watches Cecil’s face fall. He feels guilty, but shame is a far more powerful motivator. “Thank you for this. Really, Cecil.”

“Of course. I’m always here to talk or anything else you might need me for.”

Carlos turns to leave but stops for one last final request. “Oh, and if you wouldn’t mind… can you please not mention this talk on the radio? It’s… complicated, like I said.”

“Don’t worry, Carlos. I like to think of myself as a professional when it comes to being the Voice. Personal life doesn’t belong on air.”

Carlos bites his tongue and decides it’s enough reassurance.

Cecil doesn’t so much as mutter the word “scientist” on air that night.

...

Carlos’s brother used to call him pretty. The word attaches itself to all of Carlos’s worst memories. After he’d been caught playing in his mother’s lipstick well past the age where it was funny and well into the age where it held hidden meaning, he’d been called “pretty boy” and “maricòn” relentlessly by his brother and his brother’s friends. Mirrors and lipstick are still sore spots for him, and he’s not good with compliments. He hates being mentioned on Cecil’s show not just because he hates to admit the sense of calm it brings to his body, but because of the words “perfect” and “beautiful.” Might as well just call him limp-wristed while he’s at it as far as Carlos is concerned. He knows in the rational part of his brain that Cecil is obviously infatuated with him, but the nervously scientific part of his brain looks at the patterns of his life and assures him that the man with the deep voice and hypnotic third eye must be mocking him.

So he gets his hair cut. He tells the barber to make him look more masculine, which is met with confusion over what he means by the term, so he just sighs out, “Buzz it.” While he watches it fall off in front of him in the mirror, he feels the phantom pain of something less-than-physical. A longing for a childhood that he’s never had, or a smile from looking in the mirror that he’s never really experienced. He’s longing for a life that wouldn’t have driven him to this.

He shakes his head once Telly is done, running a hand through the short locks left on top, and reminds himself that longing is unscientific anyway.

Cecil has started calling him regularly, and as soon as the radio broadcast later that night ends, Carlos’s phone begins to buzz. Some of his scientists look at him expectantly, a few of them unable to tear their eyes off of his hair. Carlos knows the stares will be more intense than usual around town until his hair grows back out, if he even plans on growing it out again.

He ignores the ringing, and his team goes back to glowing bottles.

It’s not until much later, when everyone has gone home except Julia, who’s stayed to work on a rock that she thinks might hold a new element that’s yet to be discovered, that he plays the voicemail. He has no headphones, but Julia has always been respectful and held back her chuckles the best out of all the scientists when Cecil starts gushing on air, so he just plays the message.

“Oh, whoops, I guess I called while you were off doing science. Which is super cool! I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but I’m very into science, I would always love to hear about your experiments. Anyway, sorry, I was just calling because I heard through the gossip grapevine and also, you know, because I’m the Voice, that you got your hair cut. I can’t imagine who would even have the _audacity_ to harm your beautiful curls, and if you need someone um, taken care of, I’m always here! I wouldn’t ever want you to feel like, I don’t know, you have to give into pressure or something, Telly is kind of known for being a terrible barber and pushing his new-fangled styles on people. Anyway, I uh, hope you have a nice time with science! Um, bye!”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear falls from his face and hits his experiment, causing the plant in front of him to steam and hiss. He pulls himself away, more instinct than anything, and can’t make himself move again, not even to find a more private place for the breakdown that has been waiting to overtake him since long before he entered Night Vale. His whole body starts shaking, his breath wet gasps, and he lets himself take almost an entire minute to avoid processing and just allow himself to be weak. Eventually, he steadies his breath, trying to at least make sure his sobs don’t echo throughout the lab and disturb Julia.

“It’s weird here, right?” she asks, surprising him. When he looks over, he sees her eyes are a little red, too. “Sure, there’s secretive police or whatever, and angels I guess, but that’s not it. I… I haven’t been catcalled once the entire time we’ve been here. And I’ve noticed the sex ratios for jobs are almost all 50-50. And there’s no ‘sweetie’s or ‘darling’s from old men. We are literally being watched by a totalitarian government, and I’ve never felt so free. I’m fucking relieved, but I’m also really, really overwhelmed with it all.”

 _“Yeah,”_ Carlos sighs, his eyes threatening to flood again at the feeling of finally being understood. “It’s everything I’ve ever wanted, but what am I supposed to do with it?”

“I’ve been taking walks alone at night. Felt like I was tempting fate, but now it just feels normal.” She gestures to his phone. “I’m pretty sure you know what you could do with it, though.”

It’s not that simple, though, as far as Carlos is concerned. Even if Cecil was actually infatuated with him, which he still hasn’t convinced himself isn’t some cosmic joke, is it really fair to drag him into the emotional wreck Night Vale is making out of Carlos? They two of them had completely different upbringings. Carlos’s problems with himself run deep, and he doubts he’ll ever be able to fully get rid of his own internalized homophobia. He would never forgive himself if he let some of that affect Cecil. It isn’t right.

He knows Cecil hates it, but Carlos begins distancing himself again after his haircut. He starts all his calls bluntly, stating that’s not for personal matters, and keeps contact brief and focused on science. He ignores questions that feel too personal or are just outright flirtatious, like where his “well-fitted shirt” was from, or even just what being in Night Vale is like for an outsider, said with a lower voice than used for radio and a wink after. He knows he’s probably being rude—scratch that, he knows he’s being a massive prick. Showing up at the station out of the blue to talk science and then disappearing and ignoring him for weeks. Calling him so infrequently that a simple terrified voicemail gets Cecil practically bouncing through the phone when he calls him back. No matter what, though, Cecil still keeps talking on air, hoping something will change. Secretly, Carlos wishes for the same thing.

Then, as is the truth of the universe, something does change. Carlos dies.

No, not in a melodramatically exaggerated close call with science. He dies. His heart and lungs stop, and he’s submerged in cold blackness, and then loses his understanding of “cool” and “blackness,” and then there is nothing.

He wakes up terrified and unable to move his body. Dozens of people stand above him, cooing, crying, and screaming. He does none of these things, because his jaw feels slack and numb, his hair sticking to his cheeks from a combination of tears and sweat, because dying was no easy process. The people standing near him reach down to help him up, and he doesn’t want to be touched but he has no way of communicating this. Thankfully, they only sit him up, letting him catch his breath and regain feeling in his body.

That’s when he sees the body.

It’s a strange feeling owing your life to the locally hated racist. Not strange really, not for this town, just complicated and exhausting. So exhausting that he doesn’t want to deal with it right now, nor ever. In fact, there is only one thing—one _person_ —in the world Carlos can even think about. So he texts him.

He leaves before anyone has a chance to ask him questions, running out the door and into this truck, checking to see that Cecil can meet him in the parking lot of the Arby’s, feeling guilty for dragging him away from his show, but no shame. He’s only there a minute or so, curled in on himself under the lights above the sign, before Cecil’s car comes up beside his. He hops out, frantic and red in the face and, Carlos realizes, having only just stopped crying.

“What is it?” he asks, walking to him. “What danger are we in, what mystery needs to be explored?”

Carlos looks at him, studies the way his mouth moves, the slight hazy glow emanating from his third eye, the tattoos on his arms nervously swimming across his skin, the frizz of his white hair sticking in all directions, and he wishes he hadn’t taken this long to truly look at the man in front of him. Cecil nervously tugs on his skirt in the silence.

He leans towards him, offering a hand to help him into the back of the truck. Cecil takes it without question.

“Nothing,” Carlos murmurs. “After everything that happened… I just wanted to see you.”

Cecil’s cheeks go pink and purple, his eyes widening. “Oh.”

He looks at the sunset. “I used to think it was setting at the wrong time, but then I realized time doesn’t work here in Night Vale, and that none of the clocks are real.” He chuckles, meeting Cecil’s eyes. “Sometimes things seem so strange, or malevolent, and then you find that, underneath, it was something else altogether. Something pure, and innocent.”

He’s talking about the town. He’s talking about Cecil. He’s talking about his attraction to the beautiful man in front of him.

The beautiful man speaks. “I know what you mean.”

He doesn’t. He can’t, because he grew up in Night Vale. The strange and malevolent, the pure and the innocent, they’re all normal to him. But on a more shallow and far deeper level, Cecil _does_ know. And Carlos knows. So he puts a hand on Cecil’s knee, his heart pounding enough he’s surprised it doesn’t burst, a small explosion of tentacles like Cecil’s drawing next to his number, and they watch stars until the weather ends.

Carlos turns up Cecil’s show on his drive home.


End file.
